In the Tree

It is almost pitch black in the bag. There is a tiny gap above the zipper where I can see the basement. Cold, musty, dank, quiet. They don't usually leave me down here so long. At least three winters have come and gone since I've seen the sun. I'm bare in the bag, naked. I don't mind the long rest between winters, but I'm sad to think I haven't fulfilled my purpose these last three years. Hopefully, hopefully, this year I will.

I smell turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberries. A whole feast of scents missing from the last three years. I can't help it, I feel hope. Maybe this year. Maybe soon. I hear many voices, laughter, children. I straighten my spine in the bag, I'll be ready when they come.

The next morning, the old man comes down, heaves me, bag and all over his shoulder. I'm so excited, I try to offer him a prickly hug through the fabric. We ascend into the living room, and through my tiny gap I can see sunlight just coming up through the trees, framed by the big window. My window.

He sets me down, unzips the bag. AHHHH! Fresh air after so long, I rustle around in the bag, so excited. His son, his daughter, come down from upstairs. Once, they were only a fraction of my height, reaching up to grab for the sparkly ornaments just out of reach, now, tall enough to put the star on my crown. All three stand around my bag, what are they waiting for?

"Mom loved that tree," says the young woman.

"I know, I couldn't bear to get a new one," says the old man.

"I miss her," says the young man.

They're quiet, their eyes are wet. I don't need water, I think. I'm not that kind of tree. A drop from the young woman falls onto my plastic leaves and slides off.

"We should set it up for the kids though. Mom would have liked that."

All three nod. I'd nod too if I could.

They stand me up, put me together. Straighten my branches, fluff out my needles. As they work, two more adults come down, with children in tow. A babe in arms, and two more, less than half my height.

They cover my feet in the skirt the old woman made me, soft white fabric with lacy snowflakes scattered around. The children marvel at the textures, petting, stroking, touching. The baby crawls over and tries to put a snowflake in her mouth. Laughter, as the young woman picks her up.

"Your grandma made that. She was quite the crafter. Maybe you'll be like her when you grow up."

The baby has the old woman's eyes. I wonder if they can see. I wonder if they can feel, like me, that the old woman is here and not here. Her body is missing, but her love touches everything and everyone.

They string the lights around and around me, ooh-ing and aah-ing when they turn them on. Then the familiar ornaments. Baked dough ornaments made by the young man and woman when they were young, heavy and solid. Glass balls, shiny and light, covered in lace get hung up high even as the children try to reach for them. With each ornament, there's a story to tell. And then, the young woman brings out a box.

"I had these made for mom's tree." And she pulls out, one by one, photo ornaments of each person there, the baby, the two toddlers, her and her brother. Her brother's wife. She pulls out a six pointed star ornament, handing it to her husband with a smile, "I even found this one for you, David." Then one of the old man, and finally, the old woman.

They place the golden star on my crown, and step back to admire me. They share a big family hug and I puff up my boughs with pride.

For the next month, it's mostly just me and the old man, he comes with his coffee to look out the big window in the morning, and he talks to the photo of the old lady hanging in my branches. It's good to hear his voice.

After a few weeks, everyone comes back. They cover my skirt with brightly wrapped presents, a fire in the fireplace crackles safely from the other side of the room. I know, soon, I’ll be back in the bag, back in the dark, but I’m ready for that long rest now. My family gathers around me, opening their gifts. And me and the old lady. we look over them and we smile.